


The Game

by missbecky



Category: Once Upon a Time in Mexico (2003)
Genre: M/M, PWP, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-19
Updated: 2012-08-19
Packaged: 2017-11-12 10:32:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,384
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/489900
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/missbecky/pseuds/missbecky
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's all just a game. For now, though, El and Sands play by the rules.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Game

El walked into the bar, his steps deliberate and even, the chains on his pants swinging rhythmically.

Across the room, Sands turned his head like a gunshot. A slow smile spread across his face. "Well," he drawled. "I was starting to think you weren't going to show."

El slid into the other chair at the table. Sands' plate was nearly empty, but his tequila glass was still full. "Oh," he said, aiming for self-deprecation, but aware that he was failing, "you know me. I like to be fashionably late."

Sands' smile turned into the predatory grin of a shark. " _Do_ I know you?" he asked quietly.

Uncomfortable now, El said nothing. These first moments were always an elegant dance, and he was never sure if he was getting the moves right. One false step would result in bloodshed – most likely his own.

As if he had not spoken, Sands waved languidly at the table. "Want a drink?"

"No," El said.

Sands shrugged. He reached out for his glass, finding it unerringly and drinking half of it in one long swallow. Then he stood up, took out his wallet and tossed a few bills on the table.

They did not speak as they walked through the bar.

One of these times, of course, Sands wouldn't let himself be caught. It would stop being a game then, and become very real. Yet El was fairly certain that that day was still far in the future. For now, Sands enjoyed their deadly dance, and the thrill of the chase.

El himself didn't even know why he was here, why he continued to play the game. But he had long since accepted that this was the way things had to be. And he could not deny that his life had become much simpler upon choosing that acceptance. Everything had seemed to fall into place once he no longer questioned _why_ , but merely wondered _when_.

Outside the night was warm and humid. El counted the steps from the door of the bar to the door of the hotel across the street. "Seventy-six," he said.

"Seventy- _seven_ ," Sands corrected him, as they went inside.

Sands had a room on the first floor. It was neat inside, with everything Sands needed arranged in stern rows on the nightstand. The lamp was on, but by now El knew it was a courtesy meant for him – Sands himself certainly did not need the light.

They were on more familiar territory now, and El took the first step toward gaining the upper ground. He waited only long enough for Sands to take off his black suit jacket, and then he struck, grabbing Sands by the upper arms and spinning him around and shoving him against the wall.

Sands did not make it easy for him. He had to use all his weight to keep the slighter man pinned long enough to pull the handcuffs from his pocket. He almost lost his grip while he struggled to get the first cuff on. But at last the cuffs closed tight, and he was able to take Sands by the shoulder and turn him around to face him.

Flushed and sweating, Sands grinned fiercely at him. "You're getting slow in your old age, El."

"Not yet," El said, as he dug into his pocket for another item.

He reached up and grabbed Sands' jaw, pressing in with his fingers. Sands gasped in pain and tried to whip his head to the side, but El moved with him, refusing to let him break free. He squeezed tight, gripping Sands' jaw firmly. "There is a superstition among mariachis," he said. "If your guitar pick falls to the floor, it will forever afterward taint your music." He set the tip of the pick at Sands' clenched teeth. "Do not let it fall."

Understanding now, Sands accepted the pick between his teeth. The light reflected off his sunglasses, emphasizing the shadows that gathered at his temples. "You got it," he said, every word coming out perfectly clear.

"Good," El said. He turned Sands around to face the wall again. Satisfied that Sands knew the rules now, he unlocked the handcuffs and shoved them into his pocket.

Slowly he lifted Sands' left arm. He pressed Sands' hand flat against the wall, pushing hard enough to hurt before letting go. He did this a second time with Sands' right arm, and when he was done, Sands remained standing in the position El had put him in. With his arms spread wide and his hands braced against the wall, he almost looked vulnerable.

El knew better than to believe it.

"Do not move," he whispered.

In response, Sands wiggled his ass a little. He was grinning around the guitar pick now.

El took out his switchblade and opened it with an emphatic noise. Sands recognized it immediately, and tensed up.

The material of Sands' T-shirt parted easily under the sharp blade. The pieces fell to the floor, thankfully hiding the crude saying written on the front. El kicked the rags aside, put the knife away, and took the brief opportunity to admire what he saw.

He always liked this moment, when the gaudy, false costume Sands presented to the world was forcibly torn away, revealing the truth. He was a man who admired beauty wherever he found it, and he could not deny that beneath the ugly facade, Sands was beautiful. Those tacky T-shirts and belt buckles hid deceptive strength, quick agility, and an easy capacity for murder.

There were not many men, El knew, who could say they had survived an encounter with the real Sands.

And as he did every time they played this game, he paused to wonder if by the day's end he would still be able to count himself among those lucky few.

Sands made an impatient noise – although his hands remained pressed to the wall, as El wanted. To reward him, El grabbed him from behind, pulling his hips backward, grinding his crotch against Sands' jean-clad ass. The swiftness of the move nearly pulled Sands off the wall, but he managed to maintain his pose.

El splayed his hands possessively on Sands's body, one hand across his chest, the other lower on his abdomen. Tomorrow it would all change again, but for tonight, this was all his.

He plunged his right hand beneath the waistband of Sands' jeans. Sands sucked in a sharp breath as El's hand closed over him and began to move. He was limited in his range of motion by the angle he stood at, and the constriction of Sands' jeans, but that did not stop him. He was used to overcoming obstacles.

By now his own pants felt uncomfortably tight. He wanted more. He _needed_ more. This pretense of pleasure was not the reason he was here, the reason why he had followed the most recent set of cryptic clues Sands left him. With a low growl in the back of his throat, he pulled his hands free so he could deal with belt buckles and zippers, and within seconds, nothing stood in his way.

He spit a few times into his palm – it was the only concession to comfort Sands ever allowed – and then thrust forward.

Sands threw his head back and made an inarticulate moan behind the guitar pick in his teeth. The first time this had happened, El had felt a pang of something resembling concern, but he no longer worried. Sands relished this pain. He _wanted_ it.

And El was more than happy to give it.

He tried to hold out, but the little noises Sands made drove him to the edge. Too soon, he found his release, crushing Sands to the wall beneath him as he came, his hips jerking sharply.

When it was over, he was braced against the wall, his hands so close to Sands' that their fingers touched. His head hung low, and he breathed in Sands' scent of cheap tequila and desert heat and sex.

Now, while the rules of the game still permitted it, he pressed his lips to the curve of Sands' shoulder.

Deliberately, Sands opened his mouth and let the guitar pick fall to the floor.

El smiled, accepting his defeat. "Keep it," he said.

To the victor went the spoils.

******

END


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